Custom Car Hire

From Blushes 27

Ten o’clock on a wet Thursday evening in February just has to be the worst time in the life of an ageing, penurious bachelor. Thus the reflections of Cyril Regis, ageing penurious bachelor of no certain address, as he brooded over the impressive bank of telephones — all of them contemptuously silent — of Custom Car Hire. Once divorced and once stood up at the registry office, Cyril was going nowhere at the speed of light and knew it. Such pleasures as he enjoyed nowadays were few and fleeting and, some might say, a trifle esoteric — not to mention, very often, more damn trouble than they turned out to be worth.

Controller of all I survey, he mused — to wit, four silent telephones, one base radio of uncertain reliability, one grotty office, and, somewhere out there in the dripping darkness, three of Custom Car Hire’s finest. Which thought brought him to the evening’s indubitable remaining pleasure — the return of Susan, one of the company’s much-touted Charismatic Chauffettes!

So — two of the Granadas somewhere in Birmingham until the small hours, in the capable hands of male chauffeurs — and one white Jag, due back any minute with the delectable Susan at the wheel. An exultant smile trickled across Cyril’s features as he recalled occasions on which he had been empowered to investigate the shortcomings of the other chauffettes — Tracy, Wendy and Jasmin. His skinny shoulders shook with silent glee, for now the last and most elusive of the quartet had fallen into his clutches, and she was, without doubt, the tastiest little morsel of the bunch. She had the brain-power of a turnip, of course, but what did that signify? Because she was nineteen, dark of hair and elfin of feature, and gifted with legs and an arse that were the raw material of a wet dream. And Cyril knew that when she came through the door she was going to be minus her skirt and knickers!

What more suitable garb could there be for the little entertainment Cyril had planned for himself? A phone call a few minutes earlier from Sir James Turner, star client of the company and prize bum-feeler and shit-stirrer, had alerted him to the evening’s possibilities, and as he dozed in the stuffy room he toyed with the endless opportunities for chastisement offered by female chauffeurs who didn’t know a sex-change from an oil-change. Cyril and Sir James understood one another’s interests very well, and Susan was in for the shock of her life!

He was jerked into wakefulness by the sound of the outer door opening, quickly followed by the flinging open of the inner door, which was about three feet from his somnolent nose.

‘Do you mind?’ he mumbled reflexively, but already his mind was slipping into overdrive and his libido leapt at the sight confronting him — Susan, dripping, delectable, distraught — and at his mercy! Also, as per specification, minus her skirt and knickers.

Cyril was afforded the opportunity of a lifetime to observe at close quarters, without the restriction of anything more substantial than sheer stockings, the erotic sweep of her long slim legs all the way to the fluffy triangle of curls peeping coyly beneath the hem of a transparent green plastic raincoat reaching only to her hips. (And where the hell had she found that, he wondered parenthetically). She still wore her white uniform blouse beneath the incongruous outer wrapping, but her only other garments were a garter-belt and high-heeled black shoes, both of which items served to enhance the perfection of her legs and her vulnerability.

He spoke in the bored tone she was accustomed to, pretending total oblivion to the bizarre picture she presented. ‘Job go alright, then, did it?’

‘No, it bloody well didn’t!’

‘It didn’t?’ Dripping irony.

‘D… don’t you notice anything… well, different about me?’

‘Different?’ Cyril skewered her on a cold stare and smiled. ‘You are a bit damp, I suppose.’ He glanced pointedly at the floor: ‘Dripping all over the place, too.’

‘Damp!’ squeaked Susan indignantly. ‘Damp! I’ve lost my bloody skirt and knickers, Cyril!’

‘A bit careless, that,’ came the solemn reply, for Cyril was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘I can remember you losing Piccadilly a couple of times, and Croydon, but I don’t think you’ve ever actually lost your essentials on the job before, now you mention it. Not that I wouldn’t say it’s an improvement…’ And his hand snaked out with lechery aforethought and stroked the firm perfect roundness of bare thigh inches away.

‘That bloody Sir James has them!’ Susan had less guile than a newly-hatched tadpole, but on the brief drive back to the office she had been prey to a sinking feeling that it was she who was in trouble and not her tormentor. The silky smoothness of Cyril’s tone confirmed her worse suspicions, and now the frightened girl burst into tears.

Cyril restrained a jocular impulse to remark that there was quite enough moisture about already, and let her get on with it for a few moments, whiling away the time with visual games. Then, adopting a newly-avuncular tone, he patted the corner of the desk beside him. ‘Sit here, Susan. Stop snuffling, and tell me how a big girl like you comes to lose her unmentionables in the service of the company.’

Gingerly Susan perched on the corner of the desk, rubbing her eyes with her fists, trying to ignore the questing fingers that were probing the upper regions of her exposed thighs. It took the best part of ten minutes for the story to come out, for there were frequent pauses for further sniffs and snuffles, but Cyril was quite content to let her take her time. There was no hurry, and the peregrinations of his hand were distraction enough to stave off any boredom resulting from the fact that he already knew the whole saga. For hadn’t he and Sir James chortled over the foolishness of a girl who didn’t understand why she had been hired in the first place?

‘So,’ Cyril summarised. ‘Let’s see if I’ve got it right. Sir James ‘got fresh’ as you put it, when you got asked into the house for a drink after the job. So you panicked, and slapped his face, and ran for it, inadvertently leaving behind two valuable items of company property. Is that right?’

‘Ye…yes,’ replied Susan miserably.

‘Are you aware of company policy with regard to accepting drinks from clients while on duty?’

‘Y…yes, of course, but…’

Susan lapsed into silence, certain now that she was in serious trouble — that somehow, in a world run by and for men, she was going to emerge as the guilty party.

‘Susan,’ said Cyril calmly, ‘Why the hell d’you think you little scrubbers were hired in the first place? Why d’you think Gallagher’s mortgaged his girlfriend’s pussy to pay for those stupid costumes you prance about in — not to mention the cars? Because you’re young and slim and sexy — and because the punters see it that way! Grow up, girlie. You’re hired to pull all the dirty old men, and to keep ‘em pulled, by all means at your disposal. And I’ll tell you why,’ — he punctuated with his fingers, digging cruelly into the soft yielding woman-flesh beneath his hand — ‘Because you’re a bit of crumpet, skirt, twat!! for God’s sake, and you’re to let the dirty old rich sods do whatever takes their fancy!’

‘W…what?’ Susan was beginning to twig that her earlier feelings of unease had been well-founded. She was in it this time, and no mistake.

‘What’s more,’ continued Cyril inexorably, ‘If Gallagher didn’t make it crystal clear what you were getting into when he hired you, he wants stuffing as well, though God knows I wouldn’t want to be the one to do it. Company policy, as far as you’re concerned, is to let ‘em do what they want, short of rape, to that pretty tail of yours and you will obey company policy understood?’

‘I… I never realised — I thought it was a proper job — this time,’ the girl said in sudden complete realisation, knowing not for the first time the misery of being attractive and female in a world dominated by men.

Cyril’s hand took advantage of her confusion to squeeze gently, with an exact pressure born of practice, on the soft yielding flesh under his palm. This one was, indeed, a prize worth the capture.

‘You must know how important Sir James is to the company,’ said Cyril. ‘And the proprietor will have to be informed, in accordance with company policy.’ He reached decisively for one of the silent telephones.

Susan gave a satisfying squeak of fright: ‘Oh, no, not tonight!’

She covered his hand on the phone — the other one appeared to be leading some secret life of its own, but she was scarcely aware of it now, thinking only of the rent due on her bedsit, of the threatening letter from her bank, of the impossibility of getting another job without a reference.

‘Mr Gallagher will not be amused,’ intoned Cyril. ‘But he’ll be even less amused if he gets it from old Turner, which he undoubtedly will tomorrow morning.’

Abject silence from the girl; triumph in Cyril’s eye.

‘The old sod’s already been on the phone y’know — threatening everything you can think of, and a few things you probably can’t.’

‘On the phone — to you!’

‘Oh, yes — I am the controller you know, in complete charge in Mr Gallagher ‘s absence.’ Cyril let the unspoken implication linger between them, and felt in the slump of the girl’s body the unmistakeable signs of defeat.

Susan was dimly aware that the hand she had captured on the phone had somehow escaped her and was rummaging busily between her breasts, but at least it wasn’t dialling Gallagher’s number. Cyril’s breath was coming in funny harsh gasps, and she began to wish she had taken more notice of the giggled remarks that the other girls had made about him. What was it Tracy had said the other day — the old bugger had got her out of trouble when she’d bent her car, but he’d made her smart for it? Now what could that mean? She reviewed her pathetic little store of information about the vagaries of the male animal. For, like so many of her generation, her apparently assertive sexuality consisted in equal parts of bravado and ignorance, laced with no more than a dash of actual experience.

Cyril was talking again, one hand buried deep between her thighs, almost touching her pussy, the other fondling a nipple that even through her bra was responding in a most disconcerting manner.

‘We’re going to have to apologise to Sir James, you know — or else.’

So that was it, she thought dully. I give him what he wants, and he gets me off the hook with old Turner. So what does it matter? So he’s a middle-aged mess, so he’s short, scrawny and probably loathsome — what about those silly sods I’ve had it with so far, in the backs of cars and falling off the end of couches at parties — was that so wonderful? Hot flesh, sweat and stickiness?

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘First you must understand.’ And Cyril stood, moving first to the door to snap the lock, then to the window to drop the venetian blind.

‘Understand?’ Susan repeated dully.

‘Tomorrow, if Sir James is amenable, you will perform your act of absolution.’ He paused, and she was mesmerised as he came towards her, an inexorable force, all that lay between her and penury. ‘Tonight will be your act of contrition.’

Still poised on the edge of the desk she hesitated, confused.

‘Stand!’ he commanded, and like an automaton she stood; her thighs felt the scorch of his gaze and she no longer cared, so long as she could just survive.

In silence he took her by the hands and turned her, bending her over the battered desk and revealing the tautened pale glow of her ripe young arse in all its defencelessness.

‘You are beautiful, but foolish,’ he declared, feeling his price rise to the incantation. ‘A beautiful, foolish girl, that has to be taught and chastised.’

The silence between them rang with menace, his hands devoured her, and she broke first, as he knew she must: ‘Y… yes, I have to be taught.’

‘And chastised!’

‘And chastised,’ she repeated dully, still not comprehending, her mind cascading confused erotic memories of past encounters — would he be big, would he take long, would it hurt as it always did?

‘Chastised!!!’ His voice boomed in her ear, and sudden stinging pain lanced through her upturned buttocks, a pain so unexpected, so unfamiliar that at first she thought it was imagined. But then again it came — the pain! — and this time she squealed and flailed her protest, legs scything in vain against the unimaginable force pressing her to the rough surface of the desk.

‘You will cease your struggles, or you will be further punished.’

The voice coming from the red haze above her was devoid of emotion, like that of a priest at the altar.

For the first time she felt the tingle of real physical fear down her spine. Was he a maniac? Was he going to kill her?

She ceased her struggles, howling and shrieking her agony and humiliation as the ferocious blows continued to fall, and at last she understood completely.

Half-unconscious from pain and fright, she felt herself being heaved onto the desk and forced into a kneeling position, and she was powerless to resist, whimpering ‘D…do what you want…’

‘I will, you little slut — I will!!’

And the blows rained on her quivering nates once more, and the pain was unbearable, but almost as unbearable was the strange heat that suffused her exposed body as she found herself, incredibly, arching to meet each stroke as it fell.

‘You will obey, you will obey!’ The whisper of command hissed into her ear, his hands mauled at her breasts, tearing aside the flimsy coverings and exposing aching leaping nipples as she mewled and moaned and arched and wept.

Cyril was exultant, for at last he had this little cow just where he wanted her — spread-eagled at his mercy with her hot pussy beginning to melt to his touch. What a body — what bliss! Tomorrow he would take her over to old Turner’s place, and serious fun could be had in the seclusion of the local great man’s detached house. For old Turner’s inclinations exactly matched his own, and his fat sow of a wife always went to the opera or the theatre on certain evenings. Turner wouldn’t be making any trouble, but of course this silly bitch wasn’t to know that. And the thought of the delights of the morrow, and the many polaroid souvenirs to come, fuelled his present energies and he bent to his task with renewed vigour.

‘And that’s for being such a slut…’

WHACK!

‘Aeeiii!!!’

‘And that’s for me…’

THWAACKKK!

‘Owww…www!!’

‘And that for Sir James!’

WHACK!

Each hissed expletive was punctuated with the delicious echoing THWACK! as his hand found its soft, glowing target. He timed and aimed his blows with the accuracy of a devoted perfectionist, and the perfectly-formed cheeks glowed first ethereal pink, finally an angry red.

Susan howled and squirmed and sobbed, yet still her body seemed to have a life of its own, to have a will that was stronger than she was, driving her to rise towards each blow even as she shrank from it. The pain went on, unbearable, wonderful — her breasts and belly and loins burned with some strange unimagined inner light, the tops of her thighs ran with her juices. She felt him roll her body against his, hugging her close to him, she felt the monstrous protuberance as his rampant shaft pressed against her, and even now the blows continued, her nipples ached to the pull and twist of his greedy fingers.

‘You will obey, you will obey!’ he mumbled, over and over, his eyes feasting in the dim light on the glow of the firm young body that was his now. If only this could go on and on, if only. But the sight of those thighs, that incredible arse, glowing now like a beacon to guide him through the night — it was all too much, and he knew that soon now it would all be over and he would want nothing more than never to set eyes on her again — until the next time. There she lay, arching towards him, wanting it, wanting him, wanting more, more. But in seconds there would be no will left to give it.

Burying hands between the luminous dangling wonders of her tits and the oozing running depths of her he mumbled as his spasms shook him: You will obey, obey, obey…’

Whimpering in pain and mingled shocking passion Susan gave the answer he needed to hear, and with a final writhing convulsion he let it go, his power gushed from him, and he flung the girl to the floor in a spread-eagle of arms and legs. Numbed, her body flayed, Susan inhaled the animal reek of her own unsuspected passion.

‘Tomorrow,’ he was saying ‘You will come with me, and together we will apologise to Sir James Turner on behalf of the company.’

She felt the quiver of fear deep within her belly, but still she wondered — would it be like this again? Would she be at once defiled and delighted?

‘Yes,’ she found herself saying, submission in her tone, but wondering triumph too. And looking up to meet his staring eyes, she deliberately parted her thighs, spreading herself with her fingers and savouring her own sticky depths.

‘You should have put it there, Cyril — you’ve wasted it,’ she told him, female flesh triumphant.